


Pockets

by cinnamontoastcronch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x20, Episode: s11e20 Don't Call Me Shurley, Gen, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Samulet, Samulet Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamontoastcronch/pseuds/cinnamontoastcronch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 11</p><p>Sam cleans out his pockets.</p><p>(I wrote this way before 11x20, but I suppose it could count as an AU? If you wanna read it that way, you could, hence the tag)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pockets

The funny thing was I'd never really bothered with cleaning out my pockets before. 

It wasn't like it was a necessary thing. I mean, of course we washed our clothes but it wasn't like we kept anything important in our pockets. Nothing that wasn't disposable.

So what if some crap washer broke? It wasn't ours. And it was always in some sleepy town, and in some even sleepier laundromat that we would likely never visit again. 

We just didn't have time was the thing. What with monsters to kill, and occasionally the apocalypse to put to an end, cleaning out pockets was just not a priority. 

But now, Dean and I actually had a home. Cas too, since he'd actually settled down.

And however much protesting and denial Dean cockily spit out, nothing would change the fact that he was actually getting used to the idea of a permanent living space. And every now and then he'd angrily let slip that he was nesting (or as I liked to call it, "mother-henning") just to shut me up for a while.

And of course, as with all things Dean held dear, if someone or something messed with "The Batcave", there would be hell to pay. Because of this, Dean had insisted that if I didn't clean out my pockets, the washing machine would break, and I would be paying for it.

As if I had any money that I didn't share with Dean.

Regardless, now I was sitting on the floor of my room, pulling out ticket stubs to Poltergeist and Ozzy shows, and dumping out excessive piles of dirt, sand, and other shit I didn't even want to think about. 

This was just about the first thing Dean had done after walking in the door. After the obvious, taking care of Cas, he'd been antsy and unsure of what to do with himself. So, Dean had busied himself with perhaps over-organizing the bunker. 

But it was a mess.

I suppose it was just his way of cleaning up. Literally and metaphorically. He hasn't been back here since he had almost killed Castiel, and since he had killed the entire Styne family. He felt he needed to make up for it.

So he did what Dean Winchester always does: bury his feelings.

Anything was better than drowning himself in whiskey, but the whole "nesting" thing was just as glaringly obvious as downing a few shots.

As soon as I had gone down sick after the trials, all of a sudden all I heard was: "Hey, Sam, I made some soup, wanna try some? Hey, Sam, I figured out how to warm blankets in the dryer!"  
And after Kevin's death: "Hey, Sam, I bought jiffy pop and movies, wanna watch?"

But all I ever heard was: "Hey, Sam, I'm scared."

And, of course with Dean this was probably the best case scenario. There were thousands of other horrible coping methods he could be using, but he didn't. I guess I should've been thankful. Sometimes I just wished I didn't have to associate my big brother acting normal with my big brother scared out of his mind.

I thought bitterly about how selfish I sounded as I pulled out another ancient candy wrapper.

Technically, he was still taking out his feelings on me, but cooking me food I wasn't going to eat was way better than punching me in the face.

I was worried about him, though.

But even between the two of us, there wasn't a cure-all. Nothing could take away the shit we had said to each other. Dean could smile and cook all he wanted, and maybe he could fool the rest of the world, but I could see right through him.

He didn't know what to do.

And to be honest, neither did I. 

What do you even say to a person after treating them like run over crap for so long, and never apologizing? I suppose I had just made excuses over those months. Maybe it had been longer now. 

Then again, Dean had never apologized either. 

But he didn't need to, I forgave him. Well, forgave him enough. I had said worse things. The blame was on my shoulders. 

Twist ties fell into the trash pile.

Although, thinking back, there were long forgotten feuds between us that had never been resolved. The demon blood, Amy Pond... Gadreel. 

I felt a sour taste in my mouth just thinking about it. All those memories were too fresh.

And sure, we were sorry. But it was always just implied that we were sorry. Like just because Dean could ask me for a beer with a single look, or I didn't know I was hungry until Dean had already cooked me a burger meant that we didn't have to feel guilt for treating each other badly.

It was bullshit. 

More things fell from my pockets: an empty flask, grass, plastic wrappers, straw wrappers, receipts. 

I tried not to think about it too much. I'd just drive myself insane. It wasn't like things would be fixed now, anyway. Too far in the past. 

I dipped my hand into another pocket, expecting to find more plastic and paper covered in grime, when my fingers closed around something cold and small. 

Happy to find something distracting I pulled the object out, finding it attached to a thick cord. 

I held it in the glint of light from the lamp and almost choked.

It was the amulet.

I lost sense of anything else, focusing only on the gold necklace before me as I dully felt my eyes start to burn and my chest tighten.

I'd almost forgotten. That's how deep, how buried the hurt was.

And to be honest, I never knew if it was directed at me. Dean had been hopeless when he threw it out, and I couldn't help but see him giving up on me too.

I tried to make it right. God, I tried so hard. I wasn't ever really sure what I was trying to make up for, but somehow I had fucked up badly enough for Dean to throw away that amulet, so I had to do something to make him proud of me, right?

That mentality drove me for years. Stop the apocalypse? No problem. Claw your way out of insanity? Sure thing. Close the gates of hell? Fine, fine, anything, just please don't look at me with that disappointment.

The trials were probably the worst. I'd have rather died than let Dean down one more time. 

But Dean had talked me down. Told me everything I wanted to hear and I felt like my soul was breaking into thousand pieces. The walls of hurt and pain were broken down and I finally felt trust seeping back into me.

But that hadn't lasted. Because when does it ever? Dean had broken the trust I had tried so fucking hard to build again like it was a toothpick. And it hurt so bad I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

All these thoughts ran through my head so quickly the room began to spin. I sat for a long, long time, just staring at the amulet. 

I could hear the creak of floorboards.

And I never could have been ready for Dean to walk through the door.


End file.
